


Electric (ENG)

by NaitiaClo960



Series: Suptober 2020 (ENG) [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic Dean Winchester, Angst, Dark, Dean Winchester Has Issues, Dean Winchester Has PTSD, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Dean Winchester-centric, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Dean Winchester, I'm Sorry, Kind of Self-Harm, Mention of Sam Winchester - Freeform, POV Dean Winchester, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Suptober 2020 (Supernatural), Violence, Violent Dean Winchester, as in Dean tries to punish himself, clandestine fights, just a little, mention of Castiel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26913052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaitiaClo960/pseuds/NaitiaClo960
Summary: The crowd rose up around him, howling its rage and its need for violence. In addition to the smell of blood and cigarettes, he could feel this mixture of adrenaline and excitement filling the place, plunging this old abandoned shed into an atmosphere fit to an arena. And that was one. Not that Dean gives it any importance anymore. What mattered was not what it looked like, but what was happening there.[Suptober, day 9]
Series: Suptober 2020 (ENG) [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951687
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10
Collections: Suptober 2020 (ENG)





	Electric (ENG)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I want to sound the alarm on this OS: it addresses much darker themes than the previous ones, remember to pay attention to the tags. It is also slightly shorter than the previous ones and for the good reason that I take part in this challenge in two different languages. So it’s a lot of work a day, coupled with my personal life. To avoid being too late, I will sometimes prefer shorter writings :). Thank you very much to Amber who corrects me since the beginning.  
> Enjoy!

The crowd rose up around him, howling its rage and its need for violence. In addition to the smell of blood and cigarettes, he could feel this mixture of adrenaline and excitement filling the place, plunging this old abandoned shed into an atmosphere fit to an arena. And that was one. Not that Dean gives it any importance anymore. What mattered was not what it looked like, but what was _happening_ there.

A new flash of light blinded him while the metallic noise of the audience striking with animosity against the protective wire fence rose in a sinister music to his ears. Here, everything screamed decadence and anarchy and he loved it, to be able to blend with the mass without ever being considered as the freak that he was outside. Being a monster was common in this clandestine universe, it was even greatly encouraged if one wanted to survive it.

As adrenaline pulsed through his veins like an intoxicating electric current, Dean clenched and loosened his fists with apprehension, eager to soon feel bones cracking under his knuckles. Tonight, he was going to be what he was built for, what others made of him year after year. Tonight, he was no longer Dean Winchester, he was nothing but fury and hatred.

* * *

Dean woke up early that morning from a night full of nightmares despite his exhaustion. His eyes were red and ringed, sunk into their sockets after hours spent watching the house of this supposed rugaru. He made a face at the memory of the bitter failure of that night. What was the point of being a hunter if he could not save lives? The rugaru had time to devour his whole family before Dean could intervene, all because he had not taken some essential parameters into consideration. It was a stupid rookie mistake that cost the lives of two little girls and an innocent woman. With his chest already on fire, he had remained lying down looking at the ceiling a few hours before deciding to go out.

It was a bad idea. He didn’t give a shit.

Dean had rushed to the nearest grocery store, had taken meager provisions for form and numerous bottles of alcohol. When he got back to his room—on the ground floor, thank God—, he had barely taken off his shoes that the neck of the bottle was already on his lips. And Dean had been drinking. He had drunk, drunk, emptied a whole bottle and had stretched out himself among the sheets of his unmade bed. In a flash of lucidity, he had turned on his cell phone. Because he couldn’t help himself. Because despite the argument with his brother since the beginning of the week, he was worried.

However, he had not texted Sam, especially not. He did not want his brother to deprive himself of a small respite once again because of his stupid decisions and existential crises. Things were not really easy between them and, if he was honest with himself, they were not anymore for some time already. This was another reason why he had no right to demand any support from him: Sam was better off without him and his carcass full of anger and sadness.

He had not written to Castiel either. He had prayed even less. His best friend had enough to deal with in Heaven, with all these angelic losses and the threat of a new rebellion hovering over the cosmic balance. If another war was coming, then Castiel was more useful up there than with his own pathetic self. In any case, even if he had sent him a quick message asking him how he was doing today, he already knew the answer. Bad. Just like him. It was like a sinister condemnation that kept coming back and pounding in his skull. This mixed with a growing guilt that was now forming one with him.

Then Dean had drowned his too-full-heart in alcohol before spending a good hour in the bathroom vomiting the empty contents of his stomach. He had not eaten at lunch, being too sick — and what was the point anyway? — before feeling this growing anger in his heart again at the end of the day. His telephone remained desperately silent and that did not help despite his desire to be alone. Somewhere deep inside him, maybe he was hoping someone would send a message first to inquire about his health, but nothing.Furiously, tired of turning between the four moldy walls of his motel room, Dean had grabbed his jacket and his car keys before going out towards the first bar.

He had found an enough ill-reputed one to accomplish what he wanted to do tonight in complete discretion. Kansas City was a big city with its dark sides and where no one would ever pay attention to him.

Diving into the noise almost drowned his thoughts. Dean had barely got off two shots before a man hit him on the shoulder. He kept a toxic smile of flowering on his lips knowing exactly that his plan had worked before turning his attention to man. The difficulty of the thing was to look lost and desperate enough to accept any proposal without inspiring too much pity. Dean barely had to pretend. Obviously, the guy turned out to be exactly what he was looking for: a recruiter for clandestine fights that were quietly organized at night in the premises behind the bar. The boss seemed to know since he said nothing more when he heard a few bits of their conversation. Dean had answered each of his questions in a neutral manner before the man finally told him to meet him at two o'clock in the morning behind the bar if he was interested, seeing "potential" in him. _Perfect_.

His instincts, although sore with alcohol, told him not to take the risk. But this rage… this rage that filled him a little more every moment, this anger that had come to mingle with his guilt and his despair screamed at him to go hit something. Something alive, something that can bleed and take his relentless violence. Dean was like that: he was violent, dangerous and unsavory. He knew how to destroy and that’s it. He knew how to torture and that’s it. It was surely for this reason that he had so much his place in Hell... He needed to be punished for his past mistakes.

At 1:45, Dean was on the sidewalk, facing the dark alley leading to the rendezvous point. His hands were in his pockets, his heart beating in a strangely calm way, still not drowned in vodka. Swallowing his conscience, repeating to himself that he _deserved it anyway_ , Dean plunged into the alley. In the end, he found the meeting place quite easily.

Without him knowing why, the security guards at the entrance recognized him and, after long underground corridors, allowed him to enter what seemed to be a large abandoned shed isolated from the rest of the city center. However, the place was teeming with people, the crowd of junkies and thugs crowding around what looked like an improvised and slightly raised ring. Some whispered cheers, others insulted while two poor fellows were fighting in the square with their bare hands. Dean got closer. One of the men took a particularly violent blow which sent him to the ground. In a rule-bound sport, that was usually when the game ended. But there were no referees here, just a man shouting comments from the top of a high box, and the winner threw himself on his opponent on the ground to beat him. He did not stop until the poor fellow spit so much blood that he choked under him. With a smile of victory, the other stood up and shouted his victory while his opponent lay there half dead, being evacuated by two other men and leaving a trail of blood behind him.

The commentator then screamed into his microphone, asking for a volunteer in the crowd to come and try his luck in the ring. Dean sincerely thought that no one would be crazy enough to say yes when two other losers entered the ring and a new fight ensued. Once again, it was violent, disloyal and bloody. The more the blows resounded in the hangar, the more the crowd seemed to be in effervescence, screaming to animate the fight while the money of the gamblers was circulating from hand to hand.

Dean stayed away for the next two until the commentator announced the last fight. In the audience, a strong man with several metal teeth raised his hand in a raging cry, a smug smile on his lips. He stepped into the ring. In the hangar floated a semblance of hesitation, no opponent reaching the iron jaw. So, while Dean had been waiting all night for this very moment, he raised his hand, approached the ring under the laughter of others, and threw himself into the fray. His opponent looked at him with a mocking and evil look.

That’s how he ended up with this electric atmosphere around him as his heart sent waves of adrenaline into the rest of his body.

What did he have to lose? He came here to hit, no? So, hit or get hit… What was the difference? The only thing that could reassure him was that the opposite man seemed at least as guilty as he was. By the time he took off his jacket and his shirt, Dean was already crushing his fist into that idiot’s jaw.

Immediately, the screams and comments resumed around them, but everything was drowned in a muffled whistle when Dean took two more hits at a steady pace. His breath was taken away. Several minutes passed where the only thought that was imposed on his mind was to be in _pain_. In addition to needing to vent all this anger, he deserved all the bruises that were accumulating on his body. He deserved to suffer at least as much as he had made others suffer in his life. Blood rolled from his nose into his mouth and Dean spit on the ground.

When he finally seemed to begin to dominate the fight, his strong opponent, but little enduring, he felt a flash of terrible rage pierce his body. With his breath almost cut off by so much blind anger, Dean opened wide eyes filled with a terrifying thirst for blood. He was unrecognizable. The beast in him had awakened. He was no better than all the monsters he hunted, he was _worse_. In a moment of inattention, this violence took hold of him as effectively as at the time of Cain’s mark, a knee stroke flew into his brow arch and sent him to the ground. His opponent had risen.

Among the repeated violence that his body was undergoing, the man determined to beat him, Dean found it difficult to regain control over himself and a rumble escaped from his lips. What was going on? He became that thing that he swore he would never be again. In one last desperate rush, Dean managed to dodge another punch and rolled on himself, his chest in a vice of pain. Blinded by anger and pain, he succeeded in reversing the situation and projecting the iron jaw to the ground. In an instant, he had mounted his body and struck, struck, and struck until the face under him was nothing more than a bloody and deformed pulp. Dean screamed. Only then did the remaining hatred in his chest fade and he could breathe again, the blood flowing into his brain enough to tell him to stop.

The rest seemed blurry to him, his thoughts muddled and confused, drowned by the cheers and the cries of craze. He remembers, however, the same man who had come to recruit him in the bar coming to congratulate him at the exit, thanking him for the nice money that Dean had allowed him to win. He told him that he had it in his blood. Dean barely replied, not less agreed though.

Once back at the motel and the blood cleaned from his clothes, Dean was again alone with his thoughts. He immediately sent a message to Sam. He needed help. He needed his family to remind him that he was not just a wild animal, that he could exist beyond his rage. Currently he was just… empty. Dean already knew that his dreams would be filled with horrible nightmares tonight and he was tired of it in advance. After several minutes of internal fighting, Dean curled up on himself against a wall in his room. He did not want to sleep. What if the beast came back while he lowered his guard? He didn’t want to sleep. He was in too much pain to sleep. He needed to go back, to resist that dark part of him. Dean could never let it surface again, not like that, ever. He still felt his knuckles suffering, sending waves of pain into the rest of his hand like electric shocks.

He didn’t want to sleep…

**Author's Note:**

> The ending remains quite free of interpretation but I like to think that Dean will be able to go through this and move in the right direction thanks to the help of his family. I hope that you liked this work anyway, do not hesitate to come and yell at me in comments if necessary :)  
> I’ll see you tomorrow!


End file.
